


The half-forgotten house

by Thatswherethelightgetsin



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatswherethelightgetsin/pseuds/Thatswherethelightgetsin
Summary: Prompt for the Black Sails Confinement ChallengeOriginal prompt: Silver is stranded at Miranda’s house, could be with or w/o the captain. Reason: suspect outbreak on the Walrus, Silver can’t go back on board, Flint doesn’t want his map wandering around Nassau. Mood: funny, smutty, up to the writer.OrMiranda get some slightly less depressing sex and everyone is a bit sad about James Flint. The author included.
Relationships: Miranda Barlow/John Silver
Comments: 22
Kudos: 48
Collections: Black Sails Confinement Challenge





	The half-forgotten house

**Author's Note:**

> This is set mid-way through VII - after Flint/Miranda’s fight about the pardon and just after Silver manages to get Randall to help him. But, obviously the fever breaks out before they're actually able to set sail for the Urca.

John approached the house with what could only be called trepidation. He wasn’t even sure what he was worried about. It wasn’t like he believed any of the gossip about the monstrous witch that was rumoured to live there. But, there was no denying that something about it that sat strangely with him. Perhaps it was the idea that Flint would still be there, even while he was still technically trapped aboard _The Walrus._ John couldn’t seem to escape his presence. It was like his spectre might suddenly loom from behind every tree. He paused at the bottom of the path, staring up at the house. He was surprised, almost, that it was even really there. That it was so… solid. So real and undeniable. Not that he’d really thought Flint was lying about having a house. It was just so permanent, so normal looking. It didn't fit with the man that John had spent so much trying to convince not to murder him. 

He wasn’t sure why he paused. There were no real options available to him other than walking up the path to the house. Not if he wanted to have any chance of getting the gold. And he had to. There was no way he would turn away from it now, not when he was so close. So close to being able to just walk away from everything. Everyone. Even himself. _Especially_ himself. That sort of money would be enough to forget everything, and never have to make more memories he needed to forget ever again. 

So he took a shallow breath and walked the rest of the path, preparing to knock on the door. Only he didn’t need to because it opened when he was only half way there and a woman emerged. 

With everything happening so abruptly, another thing John hadn’t had the time for was to imagine what she might look like. Or even consider that she would be a real person. But there she was: Mrs Barlow. She was pretty, he could tell that immediately. Dark hair, long, elegant neck that he traced down, before flicking his eyes back up to find her squinting into the sun at him. Her whole posture spoke of wariness. 

“May I help you?” she asked, voice loud and sure but also a little cold and distant. 

“Mrs Barlow?” he asked, using his most charming smile. 

“Yes,” she said, as though unsure about giving even that much away. “And you are?” 

John wondered how many desperate looking pirates had found themselves at her door over the years. She probably had every reason to look as suspicious as she did. “John Silver.” 

There was less than a second where he was able to live under the impression that Flint might have mentioned him, perhaps even in a favourable way, before she frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding anything but, “but is there something with which I am able to help you?” 

“Captain Flint sent me,” he said, trying to sound apologetic but also convey that she wasn’t going to be given a choice in what was about to happen. “He’s asked that I stay here.” 

Her frown deepened. “And why would he do a thing like that?” 

“Seems there’s been an outbreak of ship fever on _The Walrus_ and he’s very keen that I don’t fall prey to it.” It had the benefit of being true, but the drawback of sounding almost entirely made up. 

She raised both eyebrows, and didn’t immediately move to invite him in like he sort of hoped she would. Not that it was unexpected: Flint did not seem like a man that was prone to worrying about the health of his crew, at least not on an individual level. “Is there a reason why he’s so concerned for your welfare? Only, forgive me, but he’s never mentioned you.” 

John tried to smile through her words; it was not the first time that he’d learnt that he’d not been deemed important enough to be mentioned by someone that was currently the single most important person in his life. Still, perhaps someone who mostly wanted him dead not talking about him could be considered a good thing. “I’m a new member of the crew.” That almost wasn’t a lie. “And it’s very important to him that I’m not taken ill.”

She continued to eye him suspiciously. “And he sent you _here_?” 

“I have a letter from him,” John said, fumbling it out of his pocket, and approaching the porch. “Unfortunately he’s been waylaid on the ship.” Better to keep the story short and to the point, only liars felt the need to elaborate. 

He watched as she tried to hide her obvious displeasure and clearly fought some internal battle about what she would do. But in the end she simply nodded and took the letter from him. She read it through, twice, if the length of the silence was anything to judge by. John forced himself not to fidget. He’d met women that held themselves, that spoke, like Mrs Barlow before. They generally did not seem inclined to give John so much as the time of day. He would need to rely on whatever Flint had put in the letter if he was to take refuge here. And he wanted to. There was no part of him that wanted to be aboard _The Walrus_ with so many sick, probably dying, men. He also did not want to wander around Nassau with the information in his head and no protection. 

They had a week, probably less, before they would have to set sail to be able to catch the Urca. If he was to stay anywhere, a nice, quiet house tucked away from the worst of Nassau - with a beautiful woman - seemed the best option. 

Eventually, she sighed and stepped back on the porch. “Well,” she said, her lips thinning into something that was almost a smile, “I suppose that you better come in, Mr Silver.” 

John tried not to look too relieved as he joined her on the porch and followed her inside. It felt strange, somehow, like he’d been granted access to somewhere forbidden. He wondered how many of the crew had ever been inside Flint’s home. How many even knew where it was. 

The house was dark and cool compared to the heat of the afternoon. John looked around as he entered, eyes flicking over everything, trying to take it all in at once. He couldn’t deny his curiosity. Not the house itself - he was interested in it only so far as it gave insights into Flint. The man had remained a mystery to John in so many ways. Every time he thought he had the measure of him, he found something else that threw it all into confusion. Perhaps under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have spent so much time in trying to solve the puzzle. But he needed to understand Flint, who had remained almost entirely impervious to John’s charms. He needed to find some in that would make him indispensable even after the gold had been found. It was probably the only thing that would keep him alive. He couldn’t pass up this opportunity to find out more. 

So his eyes roamed over the kitchen, the table and chairs, over the teacups and paintings. There seemed so _much_. Somehow, despite seeing his cabin on _The Walrus_ , he’d imagined that Flint would live somewhere barren. Or Spartan, perhaps, only including some maps of the world and the odd weapon. But everything about this house suggested _home_. It was cared for. Lived in. 

They came to a stop in the kitchen, standing on opposite sides of the space and stared at each other for a long moment. John wondered what he might say. What someone who was Flint’s… companion? Wife? John had no idea, but the woman that kept Flint coming back year after year was almost as an intriguing mystery as the man himself. There was surely something useful John could learn from her. 

She regarded him for a long moment and John resisted wondering what she saw as she did it. “I shall show you to your room,” she said, shortly, and was already walking away down the hall before he could speak. 

It was a simple room. But there was a bed, a chair and some drawers. There was even a painting hanging above the bed. It was far nicer than John was accustomed to. Once alone, he looked around, opening drawers and checking under the bed. There was nothing there. Not that he was expecting anything, really, but you never knew unless you checked. With nothing to be found in his room, he was back in the kitchen within a few minutes. He paused in the doorway, watching as Mrs Barlow moved around the small space, apparently preparing tea. It was clearly something she was used to doing, she moved with practised, precise movements. Was this something she did when Flint arrived home? He found it a difficult image to conjure somehow. 

He tried to catalogue what he knew about her as he watched her, which was very little. Perhaps he would have wanted to know more even without Flint being a consideration. That she had some hold over Flint would have been enough to pique his interest, but that she had possibly betrayed him and yet still lived made her something almost miraculous. He now also knew that she was from more money than John had ever even been close to having. But yet she’d still found herself here, on this god-forsaken rock, making her own tea. 

He almost smiled. The long days of being trapped in Flint’s house seemed suddenly much more of an enjoyable idea. A puzzle with useful information at its centre was just the thing to keep him occupied until Flint retrieved him. 

“Tea?” she asked, after a moment, not turning around. 

John smiled and stepped into the room more fully. “Thank you.” 

***

They didn’t talk at first. Mrs Barlow seemed determined to remain distant. Perhaps she’d heard too much about the pirates aboard _The Walrus._ She sat at the head of the table, sipping her tea and not making eye contact. It was all very polite and proper and yet John could tell that there was some _wrong_ with the image. It didn’t quite fit her somehow - she didn't seem uncomfortable around him. She wasn't scared or even annoyed. She was simply choosing not to speak with him. He just needed an opening, something that might catch her interest. He cast around for something to say until his eyes landed on something to his right, tucked against the wall. 

“Do you play?” he asked, nodding towards the clavichord. 

She nodded. “Not well, I must confess, my husband-” she cut herself off abruptly. There was a tense moment before she smiled tightly again. “I would like to play better, but I suppose you could call it adequate.”

He nodded, noting the comment about her husband and leaving it carefully aside. “I learnt a little,” he said. “But I was told that I didn’t really have an ear for it.”

Her face brightened immediately, as he hoped it might. “Oh, really?” 

He shrugged. “I knew a man that earned good money playing for tips in a pub. I thought it might come in useful, and when he found himself in my debt, I asked that he teach me in payment.” 

“Well,” she said, standing and walking over to the instrument. “Please,” she said, gesturing at the seat. 

“Oh,” he said, shaking his head, trying to appear suitably bashful at the suggestion. But he couldn’t help the smile in response to the challenge presented in the tilt of her chin. “I’m sure that neither of us would enjoy that.” 

“Come, Mr Silver,” she said, “you told me that story for a reason. You wanted me to ask you to play. So, you either did that so you might seem mysterious and leaving me wishing to know more, or because you thought it might entertain me to know. I’m very much looking forward to finding out which it is.” 

John laughed, unexpected and high-pitched. He should have anticipated that she would be smart. Flint was not in the habit of acquainting himself with anyone that couldn’t hold their own against his intellect. He hung his head, defeated. “Well,” he said, “you must know that even if my plan was the first I must now pretend that it was the second.” 

Mrs Barlow raised her eyebrows at him and smiled, pleased and amused. “Well?” 

He smiled and went to sit at the harpsichord. He stared at the keys for a moment before reaching out and laying his fingers lightly on top of them. They were smooth and cool to the touch. He paused, trying to remember the rhythm of it. Then he began to play. Very poorly, but it was an almost recognisable tune. Just a simple ditty that the men would sing in the pub most nights. It was a faltering sound, but not too grating, he thought. It lasted perhaps less than a minute before he stopped and turned his head to look at her. 

She was smiling. “I think,” she said, “that it’s a fair assessment that you are not musically inclined.” 

He laughed. “I did warn you.” He grinned at her pleased expression. “But now you ought to return the favour.” 

“Very well,” she said and he immediately stood so she could take his place. She hardly hesitated at all before she was playing a much more complicated tune. It was pretty, light and almost whimsical. It was a sound from another place. Another thing about the house that didn’t quite fit. She transformed when she was playing; she’d been pretty before but now she was beautiful. Somehow more alive, like the music was shining out of her. John found he could hardly look away. 

“Beautiful,” John smiled, when she was finished. “You were downplaying your skills.”

“I find that’s a useful way to start an acquaintance,” she said, amused and a little teasing, “until you know the lay of the land better.” 

John smiled, genuine this time. He liked her already. How had Flint found someone that had such an obvious sense of humour? What on Earth did they talk about? 

She played another song while John watched. It was nice. A far nicer way to spend an afternoon than any he’d had in recent memory. No wonder Flint guarded this so jealously. It almost felt as though Nassau fell away around them. 

Eventually the music stopped and yet she didn’t move, looking down at her hands for a moment as though remembering something. He watched her, trying to decipher the look on her face. But then she was blinking back to herself and turning her head to smile at him. 

“More tea, Mr Silver?” 

He smiled. “Only if you play another first.” 

Her smile in response was larger, more genuine than any that he’d seen before. He wondered how often she’d been asked to play since she arrived. Did Flint sit around listening to her? He doubted that. He was far too frenetic; there were surely always more noble and important things he had to attend to than allowing himself the simple pleasures of listening to music. 

It was a melancholy thought, but went some way to explaining the strange feeling that hung over the house like a shroud. John filed the information away carefully, arranging it all neatly so he could continue to explore. 

***

He looked at the books next. There were lots of them all scattered about the house, covering not just the shelves, but spread over tables and lying next to chairs. One was even propping open a door. He could find no particular pattern among them. There were literary classics, new titles, ones in French and Spanish. John thought a couple might even have been in Russian. He wondered at them. Were they all Flint’s? Brought back from prizes he’d claimed? Or had some come with him from London? He pulled some out at random and flicked through them, but nothing really spoke to him. 

“You’re not a reader?” Mr Barlow asked, watching as he picked up and put down three books in quick succession. 

He shrugged a shoulder. “More interested in living than reading about other people doing it.” 

“You don’t think you can learn how to live better through books?” she asked, apparently genuinely intrigued by his response. There was no scorn or mocking in her tone, which he might have expected. 

He shrugged again. “Never really got the knack for deciphering it, if so.” 

“But you read?” she asked, although it wasn’t really a question. 

He nodded. “I had cause to learn.” He waited for further questions that never came. In fact silence followed his statement for so long he eventually felt compelled to fill it. “Perhaps you can suggest some that I might enjoy?” 

“And how am I to know what you might enjoy, Mr Silver?” she asked, her mouth curving into a smile. Her eyes sparkled at him in the dim light of the room. She was truly very beautiful. 

John had seen looks like that before. Had even seen it on women a little like Mrs Barlow. He had not expected to see it here. He wanted to frown in confusion at it. He had assumed, everyone had assumed, that she and Flint were together. Indeed there was only one other bedroom in the house. And Flint did not seem like a man you crossed in any capacity, but certainly not matters of honour and the heart. And _certainly_ not with one of his own crew. Still. John was never one to not pursue a potential opportunity - especially one as appealing at Mrs Barlow. 

He smiled back at her, allowing a little more teasing in the curve of his lips. “Well,” he said, opening his arms wide, “I’m open to being known. Perhaps we should become better acquainted so you are able to tailor your recommendations.” 

She smiled again, perhaps a little charmed but apparently not wanting him to know it. “I shall be in the garden, Mr Silver,” she said, coy-now. “Perhaps spend a little time looking at what’s here so you have a better sense of your own desires before we speak on it.” 

Then she was gone and John was smiling after her. 

****

They fell into an easy sort of rhythm. If it was awkward for her to be sharing her house with a stranger she made no sign of it. John wondered about that. Perhaps she was lonely - it would be hard not to be - or perhaps she was simply used to being around people unexpectedly or was just very adaptable. He suspected the formed, as he’d seen no visitors come to the house and she had not been to visit anyone. It added to the feeling that Mrs Barlow was some exotic plant, uprooted and deposited somewhere she did not belong. The move hadn’t killed her, but she was clearly not thriving in the climate either. 

They ate meals together. John offered to help cook and clean. She accepted with a smile and nod of her head. He wondered how she’d first taken to having to do her own chores. She was clearly a practical person but surely had never had cause to learn to cook growing up. Had James expected that of her? To keep his house while he was out on the high seas? It was a strange image that somehow didn’t quite fit. So perhaps she had expected of it herself, even if she derived little pleasure from it. The food was far better than what John had been able to make and he tried to file away some of what she did for when he was back on the ship. 

But when they were not eating, she was often in the garden and John thought better of joining her. No one was meant to know he was even there. But it soon transpired that not leaving the house at all was rather dull. He found himself drifting from room to room, aimlessly looking at the same things. Sometimes he picked up some random object only to put it back down again immediately. 

“Are you bored, Mr Silver?” 

Her voice startled him, as he hadn’t heard her coming into the room. He turned to her and smiled his most winning smile. “My life is usually a little more eventful.” 

A complicated look past over her face. “Perhaps a rest will do you good then.” 

He sighed. “If I don’t die of boredom before Flint gets back.” 

She rolled her eyes and turned to go to the kitchen and placed the basket on her arm down the drawers closest to the fire. 

John followed after her, unwilling to be left alone again. “Do you have playing cards?”

She turned and gave him a slightly scolding look, but went to a chest of drawers anyway and pulled out a pack. John was not above asking for someone’s company that was not naturally inclined to give it to him. Still, she didn’t seem disappointed about being asked. 

“Noddy?” She cocked her head in a question, as she took her seat at her preferred place at the head of the table. 

He smiled and nodded as he pulled out his own chair. “You’ll have to teach me the rules.” 

“Of course,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him. “And then you shall suggest we play for money?”

He laughed. “Habit,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I apologise.”

“I didn’t say I was uninterested in that,” she said as she began to shuffle. 

John let her win the first two rounds. Then staged his comeback only to still lose. The next round he tried as hard as he could. He lost. “I am suddenly glad that we didn’t play for money,” he said, sitting back in his seat and grinning. Her obvious enjoyment at winning took any sting he might have felt at the loss; and John had never much minded people feeling superior to him, they were more liable to pay less attention to him that way. 

“There is little to do in Nassau in the evenings,” she said. 

“You and Flint play a lot of cards?” he asked. Not the smoothest transition to talking of him, but it would have to do. 

“We did, but less so lately,” she paused, pressing her lips into a tight line. “He’s been a little preoccupied of late.” 

John nodded. “He is singularly focused.” 

She smiled, though there was no pleasure in it. “That is his way.” 

He watched her for a moment, wondering if perhaps she had been his focus once. He wondered what it would be like, all the intensity and drive all directed at one person. Heady, he would imagine, a little like being set on fire. What would it feel like, then, once he found a new focus? Suddenly her smile from the day before made more sense. Had she come here for him, only to be slowly forgotten, set on a shelf like one his books and only being picked up again when there was nothing else to capture his attention? It was a sad thought. All the passion he saw in her, all the life, set aside to slowly fade in the shadows of this half-forgotten house.

“I’m sure he will be back soon,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it. He might have expected not to understand anyone missing Flint, but he did. He was a man that was likely to leave a hole that was near possible to fill. “This haul, it will change everything. There will be time after for all the cards you can stomach once it’s caught.” 

She turned to smile at him, although her eyes remained sad. “Forgive me,” she said, “I am in a strange mood. He left angry with me and I find it difficult not to worry that we will not get a chance to truly reconcile.”

“There’s no need for you to feel any guilt if you argued,” John said, certain of this if nothing else. “He’s pretty easy to annoy.” 

“This was different,” she shook her head, perhaps unsure why she was telling him at all. But that was one of John’s gifts, people often told him things they didn’t want to. Part of being a blank canvas meant people could paint on it what they liked and usually people liked to imagine that they had found a kindred soul. Someone that might understand them. John never bothered to correct them. “We have, always, been aligned before. Or, at least, we both thought so.” She shook her head, clearly shaking off the thought. “Anyway. Another round?” 

“As long as we aren’t playing for money.” 

She laughed. It was a nice sound and John smiled to hear it, feeling a little pleased that he’d caused it. They both reached for the deck at the same moment, their fingers brushing. She looked at him, her mouth quirking. She didn’t move her hand for a lingering moment too long, then she drew them out from under John's hand, slow, deliberate. 

Her eyes sparkled at him in light of the setting sun coming through the window. “Another game or shall we stick with what you’re not good at?” 

****

He genuinely wasn’t trying to snoop. Well, not quite so efficiently at least. The hour was late and he was merely checking if Mrs Barlow had indeed not returned without his noticing. There was really very little chance of that but he’d grown restless after being left alone for most of the day and was bored enough to check. 

The painting was standing against the wall directly opposite the door. He could hardly have missed it, and once seen, he was unable to _not_ get a better look. He read the names at the bottom and raised his eyebrows. Then of course the door opened immediately and there was no way for him not to be discovered. 

Mrs Barlow was standing in the doorway before he’d had more than the chance to stand and step away from it. She stared at him, clearly a little startled to find him in her room. 

“It’s a good likeness,” he said, nodding to the painting. No point in trying to pretend he hadn’t seen it. “Although it doesn’t quite do you justice.”

She didn’t smile at the compliment.

“It wasn’t like I didn’t know Mrs Barlow might not be the name you had before you came here. You would be a rarity if it were.” There was really no way to reassure her that he had no desire to spread any information he discovered further than was required to give him enough leverage with Flint to stay alive. But that didn't stop him from wanting to show that he posed her no danger. 

“Silver isn’t your name?” she asked, that challenge back in her tone. 

“John isn’t,” he said, fast, with a smile. 

This, at least, made the corners of her mouth turn up a little. 

He looked back at the painting. Could she have left that life for this one with Flint? He dismissed the idea. Why bring the painting and have it somewhere so prominent if that were the case? Widower made the most sense. He watched her, her eyes on the painting and a far-away look in her eyes. “How did he die?” he asked, quietly after a moment. 

Mrs Barlow blinked at him, eyes flashing. “That is not a story for you.” 

He hung his head immediately, in a clear show of contrition. “Of course. I’m sorry, curiosity overcame me.” He paused, wondering how to move forward. “You can tell me about him,” he hedged. Most people liked to talk about their dead loved ones, he found. Not an inclination he shared, but it was common. “If you would like to talk about him, I would be happy to listen.” 

She let out a long sigh. “I think not,” she said, looking away. But then looked back to him, her eyes flashing suddenly. “I loved him,” she said, firm, like she wanted there to be no misunderstanding about why she didn’t want to talk of him. Too much feeling, then, not too little. 

“Of course,” he said, gently. “I would not have doubted it.” He watched her steadily for a long moment. He hadn’t expected to find her so easy to understand, to see so much of himself reflected in her. He licked his lips before he continued, carefully. It might have made things more complicated if he were planning to stay longer than a few days. “Continuing to live after someone we love does not, is not something to be ashamed of.” 

A series of complicated expressions passed over her face. “I know,” she said, her tone not quite fitting what he might have expected, but he couldn’t parse what it suggested. She shook her head, gathering herself from whatever thoughts had trapped her. “I don’t know why I keep it, really,” she lied, perhaps the first time she’d done so to him, “it only serves to remind me of how I have faded since I left London. Like it might have been a different person altogether.” She pulled the sheet that had fallen away from the painting back up and over it, hiding it from view. 

“Some people like to remember the past,” John offered, not really sure what else to say. 

She gave him another tight smile. “Sometimes I wonder if that might not be the problem altogether.” 

Something jolted through John at her words, almost like recognition. He bowed his head to acknowledge her words. “You mean you might not want to remember your time here if you ever leave?” It was a poor joke, but he had the sudden desire to move away from the topic; it felt too dangerous, too close. 

It at last managed to draw a smile from her. “I must confess that I have few memories worth savouring here.” Her eyes lingered on his for a moment. “And I hope little time left to make new ones.” 

He felt relief and then a little sorrow at her words. Very few people really intended to stay in Nassau long-term, but the idea that they might soon be going in opposite directions made him feel a little wistful. He hadn't felt anything like that in a long time.

They again held eye contact a little longer than might be proper, especially with John in her room at night. He smiled at her, knowing now was not the time. The spectre of the past, her husband and who she used to be, was too strong around them. “Good night, Mrs Barlow.” 

She smiled at him, a little tightly, but as though she were trying to mean it. “Good night, Mr Silver.” 

He began to walk out of the room, only to pause as he passed her, turning his head slightly before he spoke. “I do not think you are any less now than you were then.” 

He was almost out of the door when she said, “You may call me Miranda, if you like.” 

He smiled but didn’t turn. “Only if you call me John.” 

****

John was not going to pass up any opportunity for long. He hadn’t been certain, at first, what her lingering stares and coy smiles meant. He’d wondered if perhaps Mrs Barlow - _Miranda -_ was testing him in some show of loyalty to Flint. Or if she was simply reckless and stupid. He didn’t now believe either of those were true. Either she genuinely believed that Flint would never know, or that if he did he would not care in any substantial way. Still, there was the chance that she simply knew _she_ would suffer no consequences if anything were to happen while they were stuck together. 

She had given little away about her feelings for Flint nor the nature of their relationship. Though she made no show of pretending it _wasn’t_ sexual. It was a puzzle and John had made distressingly little progress in solving it over the first few days. He was running out of time: a more direct approach was going to be needed. 

“Why do you stay here?” he asked, after they’d eaten the next night. They were finishing tidying from the meal and the sudden weight of time slipping away was pressing in on him. Flint might be back any moment. So he asked it plain and clear, no need for pretence. Either she was going to answer or not. There was little time to build another plan. But from everything he’d observed so far he suspected this would be the best approach; she considered herself direct. Almost improperly so for someone of her former status. 

She looked up at him, surprised. “What do you mean?” she asked, a little taken aback but not really offended. 

“You’re miserable,” he pressed. “It’s so plain that you find no pleasure here and yet you’ve been here as long as Flint - ten years at least. What keeps you here?” 

She blinked at him in surprise, perhaps at the abrupt change in his easy-going demeanour - they hadn't challenged each other, outside of some playful teasing. “That is really no concern of yours.” 

“No,” he agreed. “But I find myself puzzled by it. You are smart and beautiful. You could have remarried any ten men and lived an easier, better fitted life. And yet you’re here. Is it truly for Flint? Can you love him so much?” 

“He’s a hard man not to love,” she said. Looking him in the eye, unfaltering. She believed what she was saying. 

“Not in my experience,” John said, equally truthfully. 

Her face hardened, her eyes narrowing in contemplation. “No,” she said, matching his tone easily. “I don’t think that’s true. You could have left here easily enough, he could not possibly have stopped you amidst this illness, but you haven’t. Even now, as you have since you entered this house, you're trying to understand him better. You understand well enough his merits.”

“I have made investments,” he countered. “I am not willing to depart until I have made good on them.” 

“Yes,” she said. “The gold.” He startled and she smiled at him. “There’s very little that James does not share with me.” 

He was surprised. Not just that she knew about the gold but that she hasn’t asked anything about it. If she knew the whole story he might have expected her to press him for information on the final page. But she hadn’t. Indeed she didn’t even seem excited or particularly interested in it now. He wasn’t sure he’d met many people that would be so unmoved by the potential of acquiring so much wealth. He wondered why. “You are a remarkable woman,” he said, once the silence had stretched on too long. 

“You are deflecting,” she countered and then softened. “But that is your right. I am not in the business of uncovering that which you are not minded to share. I merely meant to say that you are willing to follow James into what many would consider certain death. You have faith in him to deliver you and the gold. Is it so hard to believe that I might feel the same?” 

“You love him.” He wasn’t even sure why he wanted it confirmed out loud. It was what most of the island knew. Still, there was something, like a detail he could only glimpse out of the corner of his eye that he couldn’t quite grasp. 

“Of course,” she answered immediately, as though there should be, _could be_ , no doubt about it. 

He frowned, confused by the ferocity of her statement. She apparently needed him to understand that she loved Flint. Which he surely was already supposed to think. Why bring it up so animatedly now? Unless she wanted to press home her feelings to repeal any thoughts he might have fostered about what would happen between them. Perhaps he’d misread everything that had been happening between them over the last few days. It wouldn’t have been the first time. 

She smiled at his expression and reached out to place both hands on his chest, patting gently. “Don’t be concerned, John,” she said, softly. “You have not misunderstood.” 

He blinked, surprised again. Both at how quickly the conversation moved between emotions but also at the strength of his relief. He smiled, bright and genuinely pleased. And then he kissed her. 

He had expected her to be passionate. He had expected that she might be able to match him move for move. He was not disappointed. There was no hesitancy, no pretence that she did not want what was happening. They came together as one, kissing and fumbling with clothes. 

Perhaps it was strange that the ghost of Flint hanging between them, apparently somehow out of both of their grasps, was what finally brought them to the moment. But it also seemed fitting somehow. They stumbled to the bed, falling down onto it together, John trying to lift her skirts as they went. 

Her hands were at his trousers as his mouth found her neck, kissing the long line of it. She arched into him, expressive to his every touch in a way that lit his skin and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

They moved together, not quite managing to remove the majority of their clothes. She straddled his hips, sliding down onto him in a single, smooth motion. The tight wetness of her made Silver’s eyes roll closed for a moment, his hands grasping at the sheets to steady himself. 

There was little build up, like the whole week leading to that moment had been preparation enough for them both. He gasped into her mouth, arching up to meet her. His hands found her waist, then her hair, pulling it free until he fell about her face. 

They kissed, hot and a little uncoordinated. But they found a rhythm easily enough, much as they had in everything else since they’d met. An understanding passing between them as they moved together. She gasped as she rolled her hips, grinding down onto him and he tried his best to push up to meet her. She wasn’t a woman that shied away from finding her own pleasure. John grinned, panting for breath as they moved. 

It felt good, better than a simple expending of the energy that had been building between them for days. Better than a quick fuck between friends. There was a connection. Perhaps one they both only allowed because they knew it would be fleeting. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to enjoy it. Or make sure that she enjoyed it too. 

“I knew you’d be like this,” he whispered, kissing the moans from her lips. 

“What?” she panted, eyes fluttering. 

“That you’d come alive here,” he said. “You’re beautiful.” 

She laughed, happy, and kissed him quiet. They moved together, chasing their pleasure. He could hear in her breathing, by the soft moans that fell from her parted lips that she was close. It made his rhythm falter, his pleasure spiking at the thought of it. 

His hands went to her waist, lifting her up, almost all the way off him and back down, harder and faster. She moaned at that, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, bringing them closer together. He buried his face into the side of her neck, trying not to lose the angle that seemed to wring the best noises from her. 

She tightened around him, gasping and clinging to him for a long moment. He grunted at the sensation, all tight heat. It was too much and followed her over moments later. 

They lay together, afterwards, finally managing to remove their clothes. She pillowed her head on his chest. It was nice and John carefully didn’t think about who else was usually in this bed with her. He wasn’t sure when he’d last allowed anyone quite so close. When he’d allowed himself something that he could truly feel rather than experience from afar like it was happening to someone else. 

“You’re not fully here,” she said, reaching out to touch his hair. She curled a strand around one long finger. 

He almost startled at the idea that she’d read something of his thoughts. He smiled, looking down so he could meet her eyes. “I think the last hour shows I’m very much here.” 

She laughed, but shook her head. “No, there’s something insubstantial about you. I saw it the moment we met, I thought it might fade when we got to know each other. But it hasn’t.” She looked at him, a strange expression on her face. 

He tried not to flinch away. 

“I think I understand it,” she said, easy and apparently unconcerned, as she lay her head back down, “what it is to have to cut a part of yourself out and leave it behind.” 

He swallowed but couldn’t answer. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close instead. 

***

Flint came back the next morning. It seemed like they’d both known this would happen. Like they’d been waiting to come together until the last possible moment. There was no announcement of his arrival. He was simply not there one moment and the next he was in the kitchen. He seemed too large for the space, his whole presence filled the house, impossible to ignore.

“We’re to go,” he said, curt and to the point, eyes fixed unhappily on John. Then they flicked around the house, assessing and no doubt cataloguing every change. John wondered, absurdly, if he knew what had happened. He couldn’t possibly. But some fear trickled up his spine anyway. He glared at John and motioned to the door irritably, with a flick of his head. 

John got to his feet, caught off-guard at his time in the house coming to such an abrupt end. Not that he would have liked time to prepare, but it still felt strange to be leaving so quickly. He turned to Miranda, searching her face but finding nothing there that gave a hint to her feelings on the matter. “Thank you for your hospitality,” John said, bowing a little towards her. 

She smiled at him, a little sad, wistful. “A pleasure,” she said. “I hope we might see one another again, Mr Silver.” 

_Mr Silver._ She had prepared to forget him then. It was certainly for the best. His life would probably not be long. Even if he continued to breathe, it was likely that John Silver would be dead within the next month at most. He was sad, for a flash, at the thought. 

He didn’t want to think of her alone in the house, like the painting in her bedroom covered with an old sheet. A memory half submerged. 

“I will see you out there,” Flint said, eyes hard and voice brittle. 

John wanted to say something, but there really was nothing left. So he nodded instead. He looked back, just once, to see Flint and Miranda looking at each other, eyes locked and faces caught in something like pain. He looked away. And left the house. 

THE END 


End file.
